Going in Circles/YANGON

Today's the day. I'm finally getting out of Thailand. Before I catch my flight in the afternoon, I run around Bangkok on various errands. I get my final suit fitting, before they ship the whole package stateside. I buy a new MP3 player, remembering the advice of those guys on Ko Tao who were so keen on biking around in Bagan listening to music. Finally, I need cash. Lots of it, in USD.

On account of Myanmar being so tightly closed and controlled, there are apparently no ATMs in the entire country. This means any money you need for your stay, you have to bring ahead of time, and they only accept US dollars for exchange. The bills also have to be in crisp, perfect condition, due to their fear of forgeries. After some online research, the place to go seems to be Super Rich, a currency exchange place in Bangkok that deals in exactly this sort of thing. After running to a nearby ATM for some baht (where I forget my debit card, only to have a security guard come running after me and politely explain that maybe I shouldn't be forgetting things like that), I get 600 USD in new, pristine bills. To keep them mint, I put them between the pages of a scuba textbook in my backpack.

Now, at this point I've been in Thailand 31 days, which some may notice is a higher number than the 30 days a Thai tourist visa allows. However, to my surprise and even greater relief, I don't have any problems going through airport security. They notice, of course, but I feign ignorance. Something in Thai is written over my visa stamp (I like to think it's a curse), and I'm on my way. Smooth as butter.

That is, until a security guard comes running up to me where I sit eating at an airport sushi stand. This is it. I'm scuppered. Whatever scuppered means, this is it. God, why did I have to watch Brokedown Palace before leaving on my trip? I know exactly what's in store for me. But who's going to heroically sacrifice themselves to take my jail time? I've got a real shortage of best friends around me at the moment. What could be the punishment for overstaying your visa? Fuck, what's the number for the consulate?! Why didn't I ever register with the embassy?! Why don't I do the things you're supposed to do?!

The guard produces my netbook. "Is this yours? It was left at the security check."

Guess I won't have to involve the consulate after all.  Get yourself together, Jamie. Hopefully Burma will fix the holes in my brain. No drugs there, except for that whole Golden Triangle heroin thing, but that's a little outside my league. Maybe I won't even drink, and really dry out properly. Sounds nice.

Before I board the plane, I get some gelato finally. I forgot to mention I've been craving gelato for awhile, which is strange because it's so interesting. Now you know. Gelato cravings. But that's over now.

Around 6:30 we land in Yangon, formerly Rangoon, where I grab a taxi from the airport that reliably overcharges.

Sup.

A couple months ago, I signed up for the internet site CouchSurfing. For those who don't know, CouchSurfing is an international community of travelers, most of whom are looking for a place to stay or offering a place to stay. There's a lot of high-minded feelgoodery I could get into, but suffice to say it's a great place to find a couch abroad.

I had originally planned to use the service in Australia, but wasn't able to find anyone available in Perth at the time. Instead, the first couch I managed to book is in Myanmar of all places, with a Japanese girl named Madoka. When I get out of the taxi, I'm more than a little excited to see that she lives in a rather nice upscale hotel. Also, that she's a real person, and not a murderer, or even a rapist. Incredibly, she's a wonderfully nice person who just likes to host backpackers and hang out. Murder-free!

I notice another backpack already in her apartment, and Madoka tells me another couch surfer will be here the same time as me. His name is Evan, and apparently he is also a nice non-criminal. In fact, the only actual criminal act was performed by myself, when Evan came home and I proceeded to steal much music off his Macbook for my new MP3 player. Evan invites me to check out the Shwedagon Pagoda, supposedly the oldest in the world, and Yangon's biggest tourist attraction.

It is absolutely gorgeous at night, as the lights of the temple bounce off and illuminate the golden stupas. It's also filled with rad electric Buddhas, which answer the age-old question of how to make religion accessible to the youth. It is, and has always been, flippin' sweet light shows.

We meet back up with Madoka, and the three of us get dinner at, appropriately, Friendship Restaurant, and then retire back to the apartment where I tune Madoka's guitar and find that I was wrong. People abroad don't just want to hear Oasis. They want to hear Oasis and Green Day's "Time of Your Life".

In the morning I steal some more music from Evan, and make plans with him to check out the circular train. Apparently, it’s the best way to see the real Yangon and hang out with the real locals and be really "real". Before that, however, Evan’s seen an ad somewhere for a plane travel package of Myanmar through Air Mandalay, so we head to their office to check it out.

The package is a few hundred bucks for tickets around the Golden Kite, which includes Mandalay, Bagan, Inle Lake, and then back to Yangon. Evan and I both sign up, and then inquire about the circle train. Immediately there is a communication block. One girls says there is no circle train, then another girls says there is, another girl says there isn’t…So we do what any sane people would do, and trust the internet. We take a taxi to the train station (which exists), and get on. Somewhere in there we forgot to buy a ticket, but…whatevs?

The internet also said that we would need our passport, and would have to stay in the conductor’s carriage, neither of which are true. This marks the...second? third? time the 'net has been wrong, maybe ever. Sometimes I wonder if this internet thing is really going to last.

It is also very possible that we didn't even pay for our train ticket. Extremely possible.

The back of the train has a string demarcating seats for scary military dudes. I probably should've paid for my ticket.

The train is a long, slow, bumpy ride. We're the only foreign passengers, and everyone else seems to be going to work or hopping on and off to sell snacks and drinks. It's the sort of thing that pops boners for the backpackers who want everything to be "authentic" and only talk to locals and just want to be "real".

So anyways, we talked to this authentic local who was real as fuck. A lecturer/engineer who lives in Germany, and basically only travels at the convenience of the government. Apparently, the government here kind of blows. Locals, man. 

Evan and I start to feel a little peckish, and the occasional mango hawker isn't cutting it. We get off the train at a random stop, which turns out to be approximately the center of nowhere. Apart from some metal and wood shacks set up by the train tracks, the rest of the area is a dusty field stretching out into dry scrubland. We head for the shacks.

In one of the corrugated metal huts is a woman making...some sort of foodstuff, by the look of it, which'll have to do. She uses her hands to scoop and shape the food, which is a sticky tofu-like substance that actually tastes pretty bland. I figured her unwashed hands alone would create some kind of flavor sensation.

No flavor sensation here.

In more exciting news, next to her maison d'E. coli stood a stall where a kid was selling betel nut. Betel nut is something the Burmese like to chew on that stains their teeth blood-red and causes them to spit absolutely everywhere, resulting in streets that look like an overenthusiastic Zombie Walk met up with a violent street riot. I had no idea what the effects were. I had to try it.

Bingo.

The betel nut doesn't actually taste that bad, but man does it get the saliva going. A fairly intense head rush comes on for a few minutes, and I actually feel stoned for a good spell, before it fades and is replaced by a sharp caffeine buzz. All the while my mouth is filling with ruby spit, and now we've gotten on another train, and it's moving. The car is filled with people, and there's no room to maneuver for the door. I consider spitting out the window, but that would involve not only getting myself into a position to open the window, but also spitting this vampire loogie out over the shoulders of about 4 innocent bystanders. Instead, I stand in uncomfortable resignation, cheeks bulging, insides of cheeks and roof of my mouth tingling, then burning. Imagine your mouth full to burst with horrible exotic tobacco juice, daring yourself not to swallow, yet considering...

Outta the way, I've got nut juice I need to get rid of! Eh? Eh? You get it.

When the train stops again I'm finally afforded an opportunity to dash out of the carriage and empty my raw, burning cheeks, looking much like an ebola victim with an upset tummy.

Sorry, guys.

At this point Evan and I notice that calling this the "circular train" might be a bit of a misnomer, as now the train simply starts going backwards after a long stop. Apparently, there is no circle, and those ticket saleswomen were right to be confused. Oh well?

Who wouldn't want to see these sights twice!

Ready to end our non-circular tour, we ask some locals next to us about getting a taxi, which prompts the entire carriage to converse in loud, excited Burmese. A gang of elderly women take it upon themselves to help us out, and they get off the train with us to find a taxi together.

As for where to find taxis, no one has a clue. Our unintelligible multi-generational posse wanders around the station, back and forth, until finally the guy in control of the trains has to come out and point us toward the main road.

You can see here all the people who just gave up and resigned themselves to be Station Folk for the rest of their lives.

I see a kid walking around in a red and black swastika t-shirt. And before you ask, not the nice Buddhist one that's all straight and nice. This was the other one, the one tilted at an angle. The angle of evil. Go figure, amid the totalitarian regime of the Myanmar government, Nazi fashion does alright.

A taxi eventually comes our way. Evan gets out around Shwedagon so he can see it in the daytime, and I get out at Bagyoke market, thanking our elderly benefactors. I need to use the black market at this literal market to exchange all my crisp USD bills for Burmese kyat, and before I even have a chance to ponder how exactly the fuck I'm supposed to do that, a guy has already come up to me and asked if I need money changing. How on Earth he distinguished me from a local, I'll never know.

Pictured: Me! Pretty much.

I talk the guy up to 820 ks for the dollar, which I feel pretty good about. Madoka later tells me that the official exchange rate the government sets is 45.5 ks to the dollar, hence why everyone comes to the black market. I also later learn that Evan got 822, and Madoka gets 825. I just did the math now, and that's like a 3 dollar difference. Somehow I'll learn to live with it, in time. 

After we're done with our illicit transaction that had me feeling like such the badass, black market man takes me to get a bottled water, which I requested, and then takes me to his "mother's shop" to buy a longyi, which I did not request. A longyi is basically a men's skirt worn exclusively in Burma, or by the same awful backpackers who make concerted efforts to wear Thai fishermen pants in America and are just waiting for people at a party to comment on them but they won't because everyone hates you. Also, the longyi cost 5,000 ks, and if I'm going to wear a novelty skirt, it's got to be, I dunno, half that. I'm putting my foot down.

While trying to find a cab I end up visiting another pagoda, because while Burma may not have liberty, they do have Buddhist prayer stations in spades. Another money changer offers me 840, and I assume him to be a short changer because I just do not need any more regrets in my life. I turn him down, and he's nice enough to tell me where to hail a cab. Down a long road full of palm readers, it turns out.

Evan is already back at Madoka's, but she's still at work. Turns out, her complex has a rather nice swimming pool, and it is completely empty and also lovely.

I feel like this whole Burma thing took a left turn somewhere.

After she returns, Madoka makes some pasta for dinner, and the three of us leave for a bar called the 50th St. Cafe. It is extremely western, with a clientele that seems to be exclusively US expats with their Burmese prostitutes. There is a band, and they play The Cranberries, Hotel California (twice), and Justin Bieber's seminal classic "Baby Baby Oh Baby Baby Oh Baby Baby Oh, Etc.".

This is a menu boasting the best Bloody Mary in Asia.

This is an aggressively mediocre Bloody Mary. DANGIT JAMIE YOU FELL FOR IT AGAIN.

So, I came to Myanmar to dry out and detox, and I ended up getting buzzed on betel nut and drinking in a shitty pub. Maybe there's a moral there, or maybe it's just one of those mysteries. Like how to pronounce "calculator". Nobody knows.

The Wettening/KO PHI PHI - BANGKOK

After our boat from Phi Phi Leh docks, we have an afternoon breakfast/hair of the dog with some of our new friends back at Phi Phi, which is also kind of like paradise, if paradise was filled with sports bars and fake Ray Bans. Everyone makes plans to meet later, and then splits up to get some actual sleep. Tyler is in our room listening to Bon Jovi and Green Day albums, so sleep is out of the question. He asks if I want to go the pub. Sure, I tell him. Why waste a good day-time buzz, I always say.

He's found a sports pub called Breakers, where I eat potato skins while Tyler watches a Moto GP race. I really wish I could be the kind of person who's able to find something to talk about with anyone, but I've got nothing here. Is it me? It feels selfish to say I only want to talk about things that are interesting to me, and with people who are also interested in those things, but there you have it. Please don't tell the other backpackers. I spy a sign in Breakers for 1.5 liter mojito pitchers for 200 baht. Maybe that'll help loosen the ol' tongue.

After hanging out with a few of the girls at their bungalow (which is up, like, a million steps on this dumb hill) while a tropical shower rages outside, we end up back at Breakers. There are a lot of judgy looks when I order a jug of mojito for myself, but screw everyone else because I am great, just like mojitos.

Warning: Not For Losers or Dummies

After a few drinks we head for the beach, where I drink some Jameson and Cokes with a rather attractive young American party girl, but she seems more interested in Paul. Fucking Irish. After grabbing some pizza with Sander, we crash back at the guesthouse.

I need a change. A new edge. When everyone else heads for the beach in the morning, I lock myself in the bathroom and prepare my things, like a samurai about to perform ritual seppuku. For the first time on this trip, I shave my face. Beard, moustache, the whole enchilada.

Feeling like a more-handsome Lazarus, I join the others for food. I'm stopped in my tracks by another first, when I'm refused a breakfast dish for the first time in SE Asia because it wasn't breakfast time. What is this, McDonald's? In Nazi Germany? Fucking fascists! So instead I eat a brownie sundae, because this isn't Travel Sensibly: Adult Decisions and Responsible Living. This is Fuck You, Jamie Eats Sundaes For Breakfast 'Cause Something About Travel: The Bloggening. I guess what I'm trying to say is, I'm a problem solver.

Anyways, I eat my food and show everyone my face and learn a valuable lesson about how people don't care about my face hair as much as I do apparently. I spend the rest of the day drinking with Sander, because he's never tried Guinness and I don't mind the excuse.

Which of course leads to an Irish Car Bomb or two.

And hey, while you're up, Bazooka Joe shots. Look, there's a method to this, alright?

This being a sports bar and all, some soccer happens on the TV that gets everyone angry, so we leave for the happier, less-hooligan-y vibes of the beach. I talk with a French guy, while Tyler gets over his footie woes by boldly and unsuccessfully hitting on the man's Chinese girlfriend. After a rousing debate about who's hotter, Monica Bellucci or Marion Cotillard (which is utterly ridiculous and not even a contest, unless you've seen Irreversible, in which case contest canceled so we can all call our mothers and tell them we love them), an American girl joins our group and worms her way into conversation.

Initially, I'm psyched to speak to another American. It's been awhile since I've met anyone from the home of freedom and Eggo waffles. Then she starts to talk, and immediately undoes all the stereotype-breaking I've accomplished with these people. She speaks with the exact same voice that Cyndi uses to make fun of us Americans. Here's a fun snippet:

"Where are you from?" she asks.

"I'm from Seattle."

Totally serious, she asks "Are you gay?" Like it won't bother her or anything, but she's an anonymous census taker and wants to make sure I'm not one of those weird straight-Seattleite outliers. (Is it because I shaved, I wonder? Is a smooth face gay now? Has anyone told George Michael?)

No, I'm not gay, I tell her. I guess Seattle's got its fair share, but I don't number among them (which is really too bad, because they get the best clubs). In the interest of forced conversation, I ask her the same thing.

"Where do you live back in the States?"

"Oh, I don't live in America anymore." Genuinely curious now, I ask her to elaborate.

"Well, I was in Cambodia for, like, 4 months. Now I've been backpacking around Thailand for about 4 months. So I don't live in America anymore, I'm really just more of a traveler."

Well fuck. I didn't know I was in the presence of a traveler! I'm surprised she even remembers how to speak English after, brace yourself, three-quarters of a year. Vast empires have risen and crumbled to ash, I'm sure, in the time it's taken for her to get kind of bored of banana pancakes. I'm sorry, Swiss dick in Railay, we really are the worst.

The next day spells the end of our little troupe. The girls split to go their separate ways. I book a plane ticket for Myanmar 3 days from now, and a ride to Bangkok tomorrow to secure the visa. Sander and I try to spend our last day cliff diving, but the shop that organizes climbing excursions won't let us book without at least 3 people in our party. We never do find a third, which is a shame, but I don't take it as hard as Sander, who later keeps calling the girl working the desk "a cunt". It seems a little harsh, but I remember he's 18, and upsets easily. The age gap hits me like a cold pogs slammer to the face. The poor naive boy, he still thinks "people" and "things" matter. He'll learn.

Ko Phi Phi has an official viewpoint from which you can see practically the entire island, which sounds like a great thing to go to and see before I leave. Unfortunately, it's up another million stairs, which is just the most fun to climb in the wet, sticky afternoon heat. Still, the view from the viewpoint predictably does not disappoint.

You win this round, viewpoint.

We see Tyler a bit later, who tells us someone knows someone staying at a hotel somewhere with an infinity pool. I wasn't even totally sure what an infinity pool was, but I knew I definitely wanted to be a part of it. At the hotel, which is an expensive number by the beach, no names or room numbers are asked for, or ID given. We just walk up some stairs and straight into the pool. So if you're ever in Ko Phi Phi and by the beach, and you think "This gorgeous ocean view is nice, but I wish it was just a little more chlorinated, and I had to be sneaky for some reason, but not too much" well then have I got the spot for you!

An infinity pool that infinity-s out into the ocean is my kind of pointless luxury. I felt like any second Kanye West was going to ramp a lamborghini into the hot tub, because an imaginary robot told him it would be a bad idea.

Of course, the general rule of thumb for when you successfully sneak into a lavish luxury pool, or really any high-end resort area, is you gotta jump off shit. See that little swim-up bar on the left? Sander finds a ladder around back that lets you climb onto the roof, and proceeds to start doing backflips off it into the pool. I had never done one before, so he gave me some instruction and...I did some painful things you could technically call backflips, if you were being kind.

But now Sander wants to do something more. Backflips into an infinity pool from the roof of the snack bar? So 5 minutes ago. He suggests we go wakeboarding. Again, something I've never done, and it really sounds like one of those vacation-y activities people do that I somehow never get around to. Some people wakeboard, some people get high and pretend to be a dog. Let's see how the other half lives.

We find a guy on the beach with little trouble, and Sander haggles him down to an acceptable price. On the boat, Sander gives me a very quick bullet point list of what to do out on the water: "Don't lock your knees. Don't lean too far back. Don't lean too far forward. Don't cross the streams." There seemed to be a terrible amount of things I shouldn't do, including some that might even have been from Ghostbusters. All I knew was I was going to hold onto the rope as hard as I could and hope for the best.

Sander is first up on the wakeboard, and he absolutely nails it. It gives me some hope, since what can a fit, extreme sports-loving 18-year old possibly do that I can't? He probably hasn't even heard of the ol' college try. 

I strap on the board and get in the water, and wait for the [captain? pilot? driver?] to start the engine. Next thing I know, I'm clutching desperately to the rope while being pulled through the bay, mostly underwater. I'm fairly certain the waterline dropped half an inch from all the saltwater I inadvertently chugged.

I'm given another shot on the board, and I swear for about 3 shining seconds I managed to stand up. Then, back to almost drowning as the boat drags me along for an impromptu scuba tour of my bay of shame. According to Sander, the [cap-lot-er] was terrible, and accelerated way too quickly, and crossed his lines or something. It's small comfort. Even better, everyone back at the infinity pool was watching, and got to see every minute of my expensive public waterboarding.

Go ahead, partake in my glory.

It starts to storm, so Sander, Tyler, and I leave the pool to go back to the room and shower. Afterwards, we bunker down in a nearby gazebo, where we smoke heavily and play Shithead for hours. Accompanying us is a girl named Faye who wants to meet me in Malaysia. She also has a boyfriend, but I'm a gentleman. A gentleman who doesn't particularly want the added stress of meeting up with platonic randoms in Malaysia.

While smoking, one of us spots a bottle of after-sun lotion left behind by someone. It's decided that it's a sign from the universe, and I should grab it, because of all the you-know. I take it because what the hell, it probably is a sign and I should stop my skin from getting any more cancerous lest I turn into a Hulk villain. It's now midnight, and Niels wants to get some pizza. It's midnight, and I've been smoking for god knows how long. More or less human putty at this point, I go with.

Unfortunately, the only pizza available after midnight in Ko Phi Phi has been lying out in the humid night for as long as we've been high, and tastes like a bag of dead dicks. I continue to smoke, hoping the munchies will make it digest faster, but no luck. Sander and Faye join us at the beach in Stones Bar, where I find myself barely able to move, much less order a drink. I buy a glass of Coke and set it against the pillow I'm lying on, and then watch dispassionately as a stray dog drinks my pop by continuously knocking the glass over a bit and lapping it up. After an interminable amount of time we get back to the room where I try to sleep miserably, but I can feel my mouth filling with warm saliva. Wettening. After much personal research, I know exactly what wetmouth means. I run into the bathroom, and for the first time on this trip, I throw up. Hard. There's been a lot of talk of signs from the universe. Maybe this means something. Probably not.

Getting from Ko Phi Phi to Bangkok involves a fleet of vehicles: boat to van to plane to taxi...It's all a blur, and I try to sleep unsuccessfully through most of it. I get to Khao San road, the Bangkok backpacker street, in the middle of the night and check into the first guesthouse I see, the Siam Oriental Inn. It's 350 bt for a room with aircon, and they give me a key to check out the room. I pass out immediately, and am woken at midnight by a girl with a note saying I have to pay. I do so, then go back to sleep.

It's actually disconcerting to sleep in a bed with no sand in the sheets.

My mission in Bangkok is simple: I need to get to the Myanmar embassy to get a same-day visa, as I fly to Yangon early tomorrow morning. A tuk-tuk driver agrees to take me for cheap, but only if we stop at a suit shop first. Originally I was going to get in and get out just to make the tuk-tuk driver happy, but once I went in...You have to understand, I've wanted a custom suit for years, and here was such a perfect opportunity, and really if you think about it buying a suit in Thailand is really actually saving money...And that's how I let one of their salesmen talk me into a deal for 2 suits, 3 shirts, and 3 neckties.

They take my measurements, and after explaining I'll be leaving tomorrow,they tell me to come back at 5 for a fitting. Easy, on to the embassy. Getting the same-day visa is actually a surprisingly painless process, I just have to give them my passport and a few extra bucks, and come back at before they close at 4:30. That leaves me with a couple of hours to kill, and you know, I've been thinking about replacing my stolen netbook...So I get a taxi this time to Pantip Plaza, Bangkok's biggest electronics mall. I'll have a quick look-around, buy one, and be back in no time to get my passport. Maybe they'll even have the same netbook I lost.

Of course they don't. I look around absolutely lost for over an hour, not recognizing any models or knowing what to buy. Mama Wilson didn't raise no blind consumer though, so instead of leaving without buying anything (the smart decision), I leave to find an internet cafe to look up reviews. However, there are none nearby, and I'm losing even more time searching for any place that has a computer I can use, until I finally find a hair salon that has a little internet station. But who could have guessed, there are very few online reviews in English for computer models sold in Thailand. More time is wasted jotting down the little info I can find, so I can make a hasty, terrible decision using a great deal of money I shouldn't be spending. I know I have a problem, but I've come too far to stop now.

I buy what turns out to be a very mediocre netbook for a stupid amount of money, and then have to wait even longer for the salespeople to get it from the warehouse. While I'm waiting, one of the staff is asking where I'm from, says he loves Kurt Cobain, he loves Nirvana, while I'm checking my watch and seeing that it's almost 4:20. Not the time, guy.

The Nirvana fan finally gives me the computer, and I bolt outside to flag down the first motorcycle driver I see. He says it'll take about 10 minutes to get to the embassy. Excellent, that should give me enough time to have about 50 heart attacks on the back of the bike.

He drives fast, and we get there at 4:31. Mother of all miracles, the doors are still open. I get my passport, newly visa-d, and allow my heart rate to drop from "Inside a Tornado Made of Spiders" to "Minor Bear Attack."

It starts raining like hell. I get in 2 different taxis that don't know how to get to the suit place, and I have to get back out into the monsoon. Finally a motorcycle driver pulls up and agrees to take me, even though he has no idea how to get there. He stops multiple times for directions, goes to the wrong place, more directions, and the rain only gets worse. I am super psyched to be on the back of a bike, holding brand new electronics, with my already-waterlogged passport in my pocket. We have to stop for gas, then ask more directions, until finally we get to the right place, where I am soaking wet for my fitting. Then the salesman convinces me to buy 3 more shirts and a pair of pants. I think I may have hit my head at some point.

The same inept motorcycle driver has been hanging around outside the whole time, and waves me down. All I want now is to go back to Khao San Road, which being the most widely-known street in Bangkok, should be fairly easy to get to. He says he'll take me. What he doesn't tell me is that once again, he doesn't know where it is, and I get to join him on his merry quest to be the worst person at his job in the history of ever. Before this, I sort of thought all cabbies had an omniscient sense of direction. It was an unrealistic, but comforting notion, like Santa. This man killed Santa for me.

The rain somehow gets even worse, because of fucking course it does. After stopping for directions twice more, and gas again, we finally make it to Khao San Road. Every inch of me is soaked, and I'm freezing to the point of shivering, but I managed to keep my electronics and passport safe. Why didn't I get off and find someone competent? Stockholm Syndrome, probably. I fell in love with my captor. But not enough to then pay him the 500 baht he demands. Because he used so much gas getting lost over, and over. It makes sense in an odd, perfect way: Why shouldn't the worst person ever demand I pay him for how awful he is? Like Britain extorting China after the Opium War.

But this isn't the first time I've stonewalled an irate Thai taxi driver. And this time, I think I'm on a little firmer ground. I offer him 300 to fuck off. He doesn't speak English, so rather than argue he keeps trying to get passersby to intervene, but they want nothing to do with it. When that proves fruitless, he tells me to get on his back and he'll take me to my guesthouse (the extra 100 feet). I reply "No" with such disdain it would make Rorschach proud. Finally he gives up, takes the money, and drives off. I win, I guess. I'm not sure that's what this feels like, though.

I spend the rest of the night drinking, reading Lovecraft stories, and trying futilely to get my new netbook to work. Khao San Road is a pretty awful place on its own, and even worse when you're alone. When I get to Burma, I tell myself, I'll detox. No more drinking and drugs for awhile. A good cleanse to set myself straight. That should bring back a little of the ol' positivity. Maybe I'll even get spiritual around all them temples. That'll be nice. If only this fucking netbook would work.

Paradise (Fuck Yeah)/KO PHI PHI LEH

Like a lot of the more developed islands, we have to pay a 20 baht fee at the dock to get into Ko Phi Phi. Either Tyler or Sander is on the phone with the girls and says they're staying in a place called Uphill Cottage, so we book a shared room at the nearby US Guesthouse, because America is the greatest. Even these foreign accent-people get it! Or, they thought it was kind of funny after the thing with the Swiss guy in Railay. Either way, U-S-A!

For booking with US Guesthouse, we're promised a free taxi, which turns out to be a guy in sandals with a cart who carries our bags while we walk behind him. While walking in our show of uncomfortable imperialist-pantomime, we spot Hefina and some of the other girls eating in a cafe. We try to talk, but the man with the cart is on a mission and won't stop for nothing. When we get to US, we're told our rooms aren't ready anyways, so we head back to meet the girls.

Hefina, Anna, and Cyndi tell us they're going camping in Maya Bay on Ko Phi Phi Leh in about three hours, and ask if we'd like to join. Maya Bay is where they filmed The Beach, and a very popular tourist site. However, since the island is part of the Phi Phi National Park, there are no buildings on the island and all the tourist boats come during the day, which made this park-sponsored camping trip the only way to stay overnight there. It also made it quite pricey. I'd planned to see Phi Phi Leh at some point, but three hours was a little short notice, and I didn't really want to spend a lot of money to stay longer at an island I didn't care that much about in the first place. Both Sander and Tyler say no. I think about it.

What could it hurt? I knock Phi Phi Leh off my sightseeing list early, and maybe have some fun. It's not like I'd be doing anything more interesting by staying on Phi Phi with the guys, especially with all the girls gone. Plus, the ticket offered a free bucket drink once you got to the island, which seemed like a curious thing for a National Park-run camping trip to offer, but forget it, Jamie. It's Thailand.

I tell the girls I'm in, eat a waffle, pack some things in to my small backpack, and sunburn the time away until I have to meet them at the travel office. About a dozen other campers show up, and we're all led to a restaurant a few blocks away, where the park rangers lay out rules and itinerary. Once everyone is ready and has their bags, the rangers give everyone a stamp consisting of three horizontal lines. Which, if you've seen The Beach, you'll recognize as the brand the characters gave each other. This was some cutthroat kitsch, right here.

But I still kind of fucking loved it.

As we left the restaurant to catch our boat, I noticed one of the guides cutting up what looked like a solid brick of marijuana, before wrapping it in a cloth sheet. This camping trip might not be all bad. I should also point out that as of this writing the camping trip is no longer offered, for reasons unknown and incredibly mysterious if you don't read the next dozen or so paragraphs.

Just call me Marlow.

On the boat the girls have befriended a stout, older Scottish lass by the name of Imogen, with thick, messy hair and a freckled, sunburned face to match her garbled, peat-heavy accent. In between tired bouts of crossword puzzle-solving, I also meet two Irishmen and a smattering of other mixed-gender Brits before our boat takes a stop at Viking Cave. The way our guide explains it, the cave now exists mostly to harvest bird nests for rich Chinese dudes who like to eat nasty ol' bird nests. It also provides decent snorkeling for spoiled Westerners, so we're handed masks and jump in.

I'd much rather be at the cave where they harvest the Cinnabons.

We snorkel around the bay for a bit, one of the rangers showing off some clownfish hiding spots and tossing a sea sponge around, just the way you would expect a nature-conscious park representative not to do. The boat finally takes us to the anchor point for Phi Phi Leh, where all the other tourist boats are currently departing. The guides throw our backpacks into some dry bags, and we're told to swim for the shore. The water is fairly shallow, although sharp coral makes for some careful stepping. On the beach, we're led along a short path through the woods, stopping to drop our things off at an open-air bamboo hut raised on stilts.

Which is either here, or this is a narrative break. Choose Your Own Adventure!

We're shown a fire pit where dinner is going to be held, and more importantly, the small hut they've set up to dispense bucket drinks. At last, they show everyone along the end of the path to Maya Bay.

That's the one.

Where I discover my camera has a low battery. Figures.

So you'll just have to assume everything is real nice from here on in.

As we all splash around the bay and take pictures before daylight gives out, someone calls out "Shark!" So naturally, while half of our group looks around their feet fearfully and/or heads for the shore, the other half starts stomping excitedly over to where the spotter is pointing. I'm only able to catch the dorsal fin of na shadowy underwater blob before it swims to deeper waters and away.

Maybe it's in this photo? I don't know, they're not labeled.

Unlike in the movie, the only sharks that hang around The Beach are blacktip reef sharks, which are kind of the pussies of the shark world. They've got a good sharky-killy look about them, but they pretty much freak out and run the second they see people. Lame.

Or maybe it had a reason to be afraid. Two reasons. (I'm pointing at my arm muscles.)

Once the sun goes down, our guides light a big campfire and barbecue dinner for everyone, which is as great as you'd expect. As people mill about, chatting and eating, one of the guides produces a guitar that eventually finds its way to me. Save the reluctance for Rastas and their blind child buddies, I always say. I've got future drinking partners to impress. This being a Western European audience, I figure maybe I can impress with some acoustic Clash. The only band that matters. I get through about a song and a half before: "Do you know any Oasis?"

Dejected and feeling not-at-all like a champagne supernova, I wander over to the tiny drink hut, manned by a sole female French bartender, to inquire about the complimentary bucket drink situation. The bartender is also noodling around on another guitar that the park rangers brought. "Do you want to play?" she asks, before making my bucket.

This female French bartender also happens to be cute AND responsible for all the booze on the island, and boy is that a combination I want to impress. I accept the guitar. Then she offers me a hit from a bamboo bong she pulls from behind the wooden counter. Oh my god. The coolest girl. I found her. Play it smooth, Jamie.

With the guitar in hand, I say confidently: "I uh, I used to know the chords to Ca Plane Pour Moi, if uh, if you know that one." I pause a moment. "But I forgot them." And that is how you pick up a French girl. My penis dusts its hands off.

"Ah, Plasteek Bertrand! In 2009 I worked at a gay club in Paris, I was bartender! One night, I see Plast-eek Bertrand, he looks exactly the same, he does not age. He was danceeng, by himself in the meedle of all the people, very high on cocaine, seenging this song to heemself."

She acts the scene of coked-out Plastic Bertrand dancing in place and mumbling lyrics to himself, which I find intensely attractive. The coolest girl. Finished telling the story, she turns to one of the Thai guides and starts up a conversation. She will be mine, I promise myself. (Spoiler: I get drunk and forget about her, and probably didn't have a chance in the first place. She was just too cool, like a sentient leather jacket that also plays bass for Godspeed You! Black Emperor.)

With my free bucket in hand I rejoin the group, where they're playing a drinking game where you burn cigarette holes in a napkin tied to the top of a cup and try to get the coin to drop in for the next guy. I lose the very first round, followed by the guy next to me losing the second and third. Meet Paul, an Irishman who I think may have been throwing the game just for more chances to drink. Paul is here with Phil, "a mate from uni" in his own words. Since I am the first American Phil has met on his trip, he starts singing "America, Fuck Yeah", which, I dunno, I kind of appreciate.

After seeing these guys throw back their bucket drinks, naturally the old debate about which nationality drinks the hardest starts up. Genuinely curious, I ask what the group thinks about Australian drinking prowess. "They're shit! They bang on about how hard they are, but can't hold their drink worth a damn" is one response, followed by a chorus of agreement. It gets decided that the best drinkers are the Irish, British, and Americans. And wouldn't you know it, our little group just so happens to be made up of Irishmen, Brits, and one lone hard-drinking, opinionated American.

Sitting on the other side of me is Imogen, and the more she drinks, the more I notice her laughing and oh-so-accidentally brushing her tits against my shoulder. I'm not interested, but man it does wonders for my confidence. Maybe you the Reader are a Don Juan-Casanova-motherfucker, but as for me I really have to appreciate the rare, fleeting moment when I'm able to actually pick up signals being transmitted from the opposite sex. Even better, they're good signals! Why yes my dick does look great in this humidity, and thank you for noticing.

A pack of cards materializes, and we all play King's Cup while a joint gets passed around. By the second round the game has fallen apart, and one of the guides takes it upon himself to do a fire show on the beach, despite being both high and drunk. Crunk, maybe? He gets through a fair amount of sloshed fire-stick twirling before calling it quits, without any injury. There's a lesson there that I bet the liberal media doesn't want you to know about.

Another one of the park rangers produces some portable speakers, and asks if anyone has an iPod they'd like to hook up. Cyndi shares hers, and as The Arcade Fire begins to crackle out of the old, salt-stained speakers, everyone jumps into the night bay to swim with the bioluminescent plankton. As the couples among us all play DiCaprio and anonymous-dead-career-French-chick (did you know she said Leo was a bad kisser? scandalous!), I have a drunk chat with Cyndi about Pulp Fiction, which I guess is like nerd second base. In other words, almost as good as swimming in warm, dark waters literally glowing from the motion of your lovemaking. Almost.

Cyndi's song choices take a turn for the Linkin Park, so I scamper off to talk with a fellow American named Jenny. Turns out Jenny's a semi-pro Muay Thai fighter living in Bangkok. I mention that, not to brag or nothing, but I've done a little high school wrestling in my time. "Alright, show me what you've got!" she challenges. Now, when I did wrestling in high school I was on the lighter end of the weight classes, so it is with great experience I can say that I have no problem fighting a girl. Phil comes over to watch as we square off in a clearing between the trees, and it isn't long before we're soundtracked by more of him singing "America, Fuck Yeah".

Jenny is, not surprisingly, in incredible shape and very strong, but since we've established we're only going to grapple, I'm able to hold my own. With all modesty, I am pretty decent at wrestling, and after a couple minutes of grappling I'm slowly able to start pinning her. It's then that she gets desperate, and hooks her index finger into my cheek and pulls hard.

That's right, she fucking fish-hooks me. It does the trick, and while I'm reeling back in pain she pins me forcefully into the ground and celebrates. She may be a Muay Thai fighter, but she clearly grew out her nails for vacation. The inside of my cheek has had a good chunk gouged out, and while sucking on the bloody wound I'm only able to stammer out: "Iyyegal! Iyyegal!"

But Jenny is uninterested in my bloody-mouthed bellyaching. She shrugs and laughs "Man up!" And there we go, my sexual confidence back down to its normal levels of a preteen albino. I guess some guys might've stuck it out, but dangit my cheek really hurts, so I leave in search of a drink and a less-violent good time.

Dammit, Paul's already making out with Imogen. Fucking Irish! Not that I'm only here for quick, dirty vacation sex, but, you know, maybe just a little? And wouldn't you know it, the more bong hits I do with the Thais after that, not only do my half-remembered Smashing Pumpkin and Radiohead guitar covers get tremendously worse, but shockingly so does my game. I swim around a bit with Cyndi, but then she sneaks off somewhere during my weirdly passionate attempt to educate her on the musical intricacies of acoustic-folk-punk band Against Me!.

After striking out with a petite girl by the name of Lisa and getting myself another bucket, somehow I end up on a secluded rope swing with Hefina. Lovely Hefina, whom Paul has been hitting on so relentlessly on all night before bedding down with Imogen (loudly and obviously in the sand nearby). Lovely Hefina, sharing a warm and heartfelt conversation with me as the sky starts to lighten over the bay. Lovely, lovely Hefina, doubled over on the swing, puking next to my feet.

I find some Sang Som dregs to swill and pass out at the sleeping hut. I sleep for about an hour or two, and miss the sunrise. Whoops.

Good thing I saved my camera battery!

I'm told the clouds obscured it anyway, so a big ol' whatever on that front. Once everyone's up, we gather on the beach hungover and sleep-deprived to try and take the iconic "The Beach" photo. Over and over we jump, futilely trying to time it so that all 16 people are in the air at the same time, which as you may guess is goddamn impossible. Then the next person's camera is up, and the attempt starts all over again.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Good effort, team.

Hefina asks if I'll take a photo of just her, Anna, and Cyndi, which turns into 15 minutes of again trying to get all four of them in the air at the same time. Was the goddamn photograph even in the book? Christ. Fuck you, Danny Boyle. Finally, I hand my camera off to Hefina so she can use the last of my battery to take a photo of me. Timing the jump is a bit easier solo.

Suck my nuts Boyle!

As the bay starts to fill with the morning tourist boats, we get on our boat back to Phi Phi, upon which everyone lounges morosely, either upset at having to leave paradise or more physically upset by the rolling of the boat on bucket-laden stomachs. Phil can't take it, and vomits over the side. Between heaves, I can hear him choke out: "America...fuck yeah..." As he hurls his chunky tribute to the Land of Freedom and Opportunity, the 9-year old son of a German-Japanese couple watches him and laughs. Truly, the Heart of Darkness of our times. Alex Garland eat your fucking heart out.

Come On Man/RAILAY

The night ferry isn't as bad as they say, so long as you don't mind sleeping like Nosferatu for the entirety of the trip. It's actually pretty swell for me, on account of my intimacy problems. The real killer is the van ride across the mainland. Just like in Laos, an old, cramped, shitty van is made to play TARDIS and carry far more passengers than its exterior form would ever suggest. The padding in my seat is so worn I can feel the springs digging into my back along every bump along the road, and let me tell you, Thailand has no shortage of bumps in their roads. A brief rest stop is allowed, inside a tin made of cheap wood and corrugated aluminum, surrounded by flimsy benches. Getting up, I bash my head against the van's ceiling, only to find Jackass 2 is playing on a small, grainy TV inside. I feel like the franchise is following me, like a more butt-obsessed Sadako.

While Railay isn't technically an island, a range of mountains along the peninsula means visitors have to take a boat in and out. Once we come into port, I find myself in East Railay Beach, one of the two town centers. A single room at any of the hotels here costs too much for my lonely ass, so I hike inland into the jungle for cheaper options. A narrow dirt road takes me past a few clumps of bungalows, and I stop at one particularly ratty collection sitting in a sunlit field. At 350 baht, I still think I overpaid. See if you can figure out what's off about the bathroom:

It isn't the cold shower. Like a poetry-writing teenager, I've long since gotten used to them. No, it's the lack of a fucking sink that really threw me. Not to brag, but I've seen a lot of bathrooms in my time, and this is the first I've been in that was sans-sink. It's not the biggest deal, but...geez. It makes all bathroom operations just a little more frustrating, like eating soup without any lips. Oh, and they told me they wouldn't be able to give me any toilet paper until the evening, which was also just...not cool, guys.

With my backpack stashed away, I continue along the dirt road and into dense forest.  Here, the path gets more and more haphazard as it zig-zags up a series of hills. Next to the path is strung what must be the only cable line for this entire side of the island, which I'm a little reluctant to use as a walking support. After about a half hour of hiking, the road spits me out onto West Railay Beach.

All throughout the area jut gorgeous white limestone karsts, perfect for rock climbing. Unbeknownst to me, Railay is actually one of the world's biggest rock climbing destinations. I meet another backpacker on his way to town, who points out how many of the cliffs are already bolted and ready for climbing. All you need is a bag of gear and someone to belay.

Even getting into town requires some bouldering: Since the end of the beach is blocked by more cliffs, the only paths through involve either working your way through a narrow crevasse, or catching low tide and trying to wade around the shore. Fuck it, I love rock climbing. This'll just be foreplay:

After scrambling through the narrow passage, I eat lunch at a cafe that's supposed to have great tuna sandwiches. While I eat a big plate of internet exaggeration and disappointment, Simon and Niels walk by, completely out of the blue.

They've already made a day of climbing, and are quick to rave about the experience, as well as point me in the direction of where I can find some guides. Before leaving, they also let me know where they're staying in the area so we can meet up later.

Most climbing tours are scheduled for the early morning, so it turns out to be tough finding a guide to take me now that it's past noon. Still, I finally find a local Thai who promises for 800 baht to take me to as many spots as we can manage before sundown. He hands me a pair of climbing shoes, and before I can even get them on, chides "The shoes fit! Come on man!" and leads me to the first cliff. Like everyone else in the area, he's deeply tanned and tightly muscled, and makes me feel absolutely ashamed after seeing him effortlessly scale these rock faces to thread the rope for me, only to have my out-of-practice and out-of-shape ass clumsily try to match him. "Have a water! Come on man!" he helpfully suggests.

Before the light starts to fail, we get in 2 3/4 climbs before my paltry energy reserves finally run dry. Back at the shop, my guide makes fun of me when I ask for band-aids for my fingers that have blistered and burst. "Come on man! Fingers okay! You don't need! Come on man!"

The wussy man needs band-aids for his boo-boos.

No, I insist, I do need. Because I thought I was a hard man, but it turns out I'm just a pig-tailed Nancy Boy who's afraid of getting a widdle infection.

Outside the climb shop I sit at a table in an alley to bandage my hands. Next to me a Thai Rasta with shoulder-length dreads is playing guitar to a blind child. After I finish wrapping my fingers, the Rasta offers me the guitar, which I'm all too happy to refuse until the blind kid, sensing a new performer, smiles wide and chants me on. 

Well, what else can I do? Come on man. I give a very mediocre performance of Smashing Pumpkins' "Today" for the kid while the Rasta practices twirling a firestick. I have to give credit to the blind boy though, as he kept me in the alley long enough to have Tyler and Sander coincidentally walk by and notice me. Together, we grab some dinner at a Thai restaurant where the waiter insists on cleaning and then trying on our sunglasses. As it turns out, he prefers Tyler's £150 designer shades to my 5 dollar fake Ray Bans. Some people have an eye, I guess (Which was not a joke at the blind kid's expense, and shame on you if you thought it was! Alternatively, shame on me if no one thought it was and I just made an awkward dick out of myself [You know, awkward like nestling a set of brackets inside multiple sentences in a set of parentheses inside another sentence {Or your butt! Shut up!}.].)

Around dusk Tyler and Sander lead me into the jungle to visit a Reggae-themed bar they found the night previous, that they tell me has some of the best coffee they've ever had. Also, weed. It is named, imaginatively, Reggae Bar.

The boys don't lie. I order, and watch as the be-dreaded bartender/barista painstakingly hand-grinds the beans for what seems like an eternity before disappearing behind his beat-up espresso machine and returning with a god-damn excellent iced mocha. As we sit back and enjoy our coffees, we're chatted up by a Swiss guy sitting with his girlfriend on some pillows a few yards away.

"So ver are you all from?" he asks.

Each of us answers in turn. Sander, Tyler, then me. "America."

"That damn country!" Whoo boy.

"Well hey, we got bin Laden!" I reply. Now, I'm never quick to defend the States, because, well, everything, but geez man. We got bin Laden!

"Big deal, only take 10 years to find guy on dialysis in couple of mountains!"

There is nothing that will make a person more patriotic than some dick stranger in a foreign land ragging on his homeland. Unfortunately, all I have time to come back at him with is "Hey, you know, it was more than a couple mountains..." before his girlfriend gives him a look that says "Stop being mean to him, you know he only has an American education." As if to apologize for his rudeness, he asks Sander "Would you like?" and offers a joint he's just bought, but is turned down. Then Tyler, "Would you like?", again turned down, "No thanks man". And then he looks at me, retracts the proffered joint, and falls silent. What a global fucking citizen.

The bar has an acoustic guitar lying down, which starts to get passed around after Tyler rolls a couple blunts from his own stash. Once I've picked it up, and started plucking the intro to Metallica's "One" (because a girl from Montreal requested "Wish You Were Here", and I figured I should show the poor girl what real music sounds like), Swiss Miss Fucking Asshole starts loud-whispering to his girlfriend about how easy it is to play guitar. I mean, it's totally true, it's the music community's dirty little secret how stupidly easy it is to play guitar and impress people, but CHRIST MAN GET THE FUCK OFF MY STAR-SPANGLED NUTS.

But maybe I've been going about this all wrong. Better to take the high road, and show him some of that American compassion and diplomacy we aren't known for in the slightest. Catch him off guard.

"You want to play something for us?" I ask, holding out the guitar for him. Global citizen, here.

"Oh, I don't play guitar." He doesn't even play guitar! I swear to fuck I wish I gave more of a shit about Switzerland just so I could have levied some truly prejudiced and paint-peelingly offensive epithets his way. Even now, I just shot all my knowledge on that hot cocoa zinger a paragraph ago. Are they the ones with funny hats, or shoes? What's their pants situation? Ultimately, it didn't matter, because by now the entire bar was tired of his bullshit and just ignored him, and he left shortly after without saying anything. U-S-A! U-S-A!

We smoke a little more, and I try to field some music requests, but apparently all people from Europe want to hear is Oasis, and then after that maybe change the vibe with some Oasis, and then finally close out strong with Oasis. If you're from Europe and you take exception to that, well, talk to everyone else from your continent. Only you might have to speak kind of loudly, because they're all listening to goddamn "Wonderwall" for the hundred billionth time on repeat through a busted Walkman from back when that band might have mistakenly been considered good. Yeah, I'm a music snob, and I will fight you!

I'm sorry, just thinking about that Swiss guy got me all worked up. "Oh, I don't play guitar" what a dick.

After about the third time someone asks for an Oasis song and I say "Sure" and play The Misfits, I leave with Tyler and Sander for their bungalow, where we smoke more weed and play the card game Shithead for another few hours. In almost total darkness, I walk through the jungle back to my bungalow, where I sleep fitfully, because that's kind of my thing now.

That Swiss guy was kind of a bummer, so here are some cats being lazy at a Railay restaurant.

From Railay East, we catch the morning boat to Ko Phi Phi, where we can meet back up with the girls and keep our little party going. Rather than a longtail, this is the fast boat, so for the majority of the ride we sit feet over the railings, just riding the waves, the toothpaste foam of the water bathing our soles after each bounce and brief spell of hangtime. Range after range of limestone cliffs race by behind the warm spray of ocean water. Fuck. I liked Railay.